A Dark and Dreary Night
by JacksAreWild
Summary: Despite the title, this is F!Hawke and Fenris fluffiness.


**A/N: My mom used to joke that every story her grandmother told started with "Twas a dark and dreary night." My great-grandmother was an Italian immigrant, and illiterate, like so many of her generation. But she still believed in the power of a good story. So, she would hold the book open on her lap and make up the words that went inside. She passed her love of stories on to my mother, who passed it on to me. **

**I never met my great-grandmother, and my mom is gone now, too, but this story is dedicated to both of them. And if you think about it, you can go almost anywhere from that dark and dreary night…from monsters lurking under the bed to a warm and cozy scene like this one. **

* * *

"It was not long before Shartan acc…ac-comp…"

"Accompanied," Hawke supplied gently, just as there was a deafening "Crack!" of lightning, and seconds later, a rolling "Boom!" of thunder that shook the house. Fang raised his head and growled menacingly. Hawke startled slightly, and then laughed self-consciously. Since Leandra's death, she had been restless and jumpy. Fenris gave her a reassuring squeeze.

They were sitting on the floor, on a rug in front of the fire. Outside, the wind-driven rain lashed the windows. Occasionally, a flurry of drops would find their way down the chimney, and the flames would flicker, causing the shadows on the walls to dance wildly. Fenris sat with his back against the sofa, bare-chested and barefoot, legs splayed. Hawke sat between them, cradled against his chest – the book about Shartan propped on her bent knees. It was a cold night, and they had a wolf-pelt blanket tossed over their legs. The mabari reclined next to them. He had been snuffling softly until the cacophonous storm had interrupted his slumber.

They spent many nights this way. They would go to bed, make love, and sleep peacefully for a short time. Then one or the other would waken – sometimes gradually, but more often with a cry and a start – and their nocturnal routine would begin. If one or both of them was particularly logy, sometimes they would stay in bed amidst soothing whispers, wrapped in each other's embrace. Comforting caresses frequently became tantalizing touches, passionate kisses and blissful ecstasy. Then the escape into oblivion would follow once more, hopefully lingering until dawn.

But more often, they would brew tea and raid the pantry for cakes or other sweets. Sometimes they would play cards, although that was always risky, because they both hated to lose. More than one game had devolved into accusations of cheating and ribald name-calling. Other times they would nestle under a blanket on the sofa and share the stories of their lives. Fenris would tell her about Tevinter, and about his time with the Fog Warriors in Seheron. Hawke loved the sound of his voice; the gruff, bass rumble of it vibrating against her skin as she leaned against him. She relayed tales of growing up in Lothering; recollections of her family in happier times. She talked about fleeing the blight and her first year in Kirkwall, struggling to survive. As she spoke, she would absently trail her fingertips over the scars in his skin. Hawke's touch had the power to transform them in his mind from something painful and ugly into something tolerable and even mildly erotic.

But Fenris' favorite nights were the ones like tonight, when they would sprawl on the floor and read. Hawke was teaching him how, and she was a surprisingly patient instructor. He would practice for a while, and then cajole her into taking over, pleading fatigue. Her recitations were lilting melodies compared to his stilted ones. He would lay with his head in her lap - her fingers brushing the silky-fine white strands from his face as she read – and he could close his eyes and picture being there with Shartan, and Andrastre, and all the rest on their adventures. In his previous life as a slave, there had been no place for fanciful imaginings. Now, his whole existence seemed like a novel come to life, so what could the harm be in a few more fantasies?

Outside, the storm continued to rage. As another loud crash reverberated through the house, Fang leapt to his feet and started barking. "It's okay, boy," Hawke murmured as she clutched at the blanket the startled dog had dislodged. In his agitated state, Fang identified this moving target as prey, and he lunged forward, grasping the throw in his teeth. "Hey!" Hawke exclaimed as the hound bounded away with his prize. She sprang to her feet and Fenris caught a tantalizing glimpse of bare thigh before she was off and running after the dog. The downpour was completely forgotten as the delighted mabari conveyed his prize from room to room, reveling in the chase.

Fenris chuckled and shook his head as he climbed to his feet, preparing to join the fray. He knew that the books Hawke read to him contained many truths – stories of hurt, pain, betrayal and brutality. He had experienced such things firsthand. Before he'd met Hawke, he would have been certain that the other tales – the ones about friendship, family, hope and love – were nothing more than fabrications. But as he pursued the joyful canine through Hawke's mansion in the dead of night, listening to his lover's exasperated laughter, he knew that those fables had become a part of his biography, as well.


End file.
